


written on, rewritten, smoothed over

by thelivingbird



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, F/M, Iceberg Theory, shameless sitting around and thinking about things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelivingbird/pseuds/thelivingbird
Summary: "As much as she wants to draw this out, she won’t let herself. This annual deal of theirs is treated more like a necessary meal to get through the rest of the journey alone."
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	written on, rewritten, smoothed over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanssapart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanssapart/gifts).



An old wretched stone house sits on the borderland of the property. So unspectacular, no one has thought to touch it since the estates were lost. The lodging of a servant or groundskeeper, perhaps. Nowhere any people of consequence would spend time in. It is worth slightly more than the pile of chopped wood that was taken by the moss a short while ago. If it weren’t for the hinges on the door’s unusually good condition, making no noise when the chipped paint wood swings open or close, it may have been taken by the elements completely.

Inside, bottles of wine, unopen and empty, line the floor. A fireplace in disrepair is the only piece that keeps the space from being an outright box. A wooden table with a singular stool sits by the window which has become more of a hole than a window. The hole is covered by the torn fabric of a stained floral bedsheet. The deep red wine that was spilled on it overpowers the sheet’s faded colors. When the sun is in the right place it warms the fabric and casts a bloody glow on the floor.

The bed is more frame than mattress. The metal is deformed from uneven use. The thin lining of the cushion does not invite a good night’s rest. It’s bared to the elements that have made their way inside of this this other dimension of life.

She is sitting on the stool wondering if she should start drinking without him. She has made sure to arrive late, but nevertheless still beat him to it. His blasé attitude about these things doesn’t require any thought. The whole experience is so effortless for him. When the phrase “something is eating at him” is used, it usually implies anxiety, but in this case, it is just the opposite. Something is eating at him, but it’s eating away at the concerns he deems a luxury. The shape it’s emptying out can fit her form perfectly.

The cork drops to the floor without a sound. She takes the first sip. The scent overwhelms her, turning the wine to acid in her mouth. It smells like him when she likes him best.

The floorboards with their gaps between them (she lost a ring through them last year) creak as he walks up behind her. Without looking at him, just listening to the tempo of his steps, she can hear him favoring his left leg. She makes a mental note to put pressure on it later. Her eyes are closed as he runs his fingertips up the center of her throat, grabbing her chin to force it up for a kiss. He pulls away far enough to see her eyes clearly. “A French wine.”

She can smell him easily at this distance. He’s scrubbed himself clean with lavender and rose soap. A voice in her mind wonders if he’s covering up something else. The comfort comes from knowing that she is at least still worth the effort to hide from. “It’s too cold.”

He takes the bottle to his lips, thumb swiping off the mark of her lipstick as he does so. “Makes it taste sweeter.”

The table groans under his weight. She wants to warn him about the weak wood, the termites she spotted, but it wouldn’t make a difference. He thinks everything is replaceable. He forgets who he is now and where he stands. He forgets that this home isn’t his. His eyes turn away from her to focus on the snow leopard by his knee. The stain on the sheets has its red light shining through onto his black hair. She thinks he’s never looked more angelic. A book her father smuggled her long ago detailed tales of jealous gods and humans too beautiful for their own good. If there was any deity up above with proper sense, they would strike him down now.

As much as she wants to draw this out, she won’t let herself. This annual deal of theirs is treated more like a necessary meal to get through the rest of the journey alone. By some miracle the table suffers no damage. The snow leopard and the golden monkey go off to their own little corner of the room, happy to ignore their counterparts.

The expression he gives her strikes her with the fear that he has received the revelation that he is bored of her. As if in response to her concern, his face softens. “The blood has left your face. How long have you been sitting like that?”

“Not long at all.”

He shrugs off his coat and drops it on the floor. Mud is displayed on the back. He lost his footing somewhere in the out there. From the depths of his inner coat pocket a picture is creeping out. Only the eyes can be seen just over the lining.

The uneven and heavy steps make their way over to the bed. He’s undressing himself in front of her while she doesn’t move a muscle. To breathe would be to admit that she was here at all. It’s not so easy, ending things, addicts still have traces of their former loved one on their body. His body on the bed is a plagiarized copy of a picture she has seen before. She moves at last, inserting herself into the image.

It is his turn to do the work, she decides. His hands, more course than they are in her memory, work her buttons. As she sees the crease between his brows appear, she has the sudden urge to cry. Instead, she simply kisses that spot to address the trouble at the source. His hands stop when he pushes the fabric from her shoulders. It is difficult to understand why she is more afraid now than when there was more to lose.

“Do you hate me that much?” His voice is low.

She presses her thumb between his collarbones to keep track of his heart rate.

It is difficult to tell if they are more or less alive in this negative space. Everything vibrates at its own unique frequency here, but at least that unique quality invites the curious mind to examine it. The phenomenon could be studied and understood and then controlled. But they’ve both been procrastinating on the work. Something always comes up and there is always a place to be. More scars have to be collected for a pattern to be imagined.

The blood is back in her face and making up for lost time away. They are using each other’s bodies to make up for the absence of the comforts they are more accustomed to.

“I have a gift for you.”

His voice startles her, but she doesn’t open her eyes. She only feels the cool metal of a ring returning to her finger.

“I fished it out. Hardly a pinky fingers depth beneath the floor.”

So, he had come on his own. Perhaps earlier today. She likes to imagine him fumbling around in this broken-down room by himself. Maybe that is when he fell. The place can hardly be considered clean. It makes him feel so small underneath her head. The poor shape of the bed forces them together into a abyss of stained sheets. She nuzzles into him to hide from him. “You didn’t have to.” The ring of laughter can be heard in her voice.

“Can’t leave ourselves behind here. Have to take it all with us when we go.”

“Not _everything_.”

His teeth grind against each other as he smiles. “No.”

The only sound is the wine moving in its bottle as they take turns tipping it back into their mouths. She loves to watch him as he drinks. It tastes better from his mouth. He lets his free hand fall on her and the shock is visible.

“You’re freezing.”

“Just the palms.”

“You have to massage them to get them warm again. They’ll fall right off.”

“I’m busy. If they go, I have yours.” His hand turns palm up to offer it to her. “Did you see the clovers blooming out there? Good luck on the way.”

“I didn’t.”

The wine is poured over her hip. She bites her lip at the surprise.

“Tastes better this way.” He’s framed over her quite literally drinking her in, trying to be playful. What is he seeing in her? What does he know about the events that took up her life between the last time and now? She wishes he just set her on fire. But she has already chosen between him and another fiery tyrant. That latter being a more controlled flame.

He’s become hazy to her. No, that’s a lie. The truth is that he has become crystal clear. She assumes the same is true for him. However, there is a price to that clarity. The object that is understood sits under the magnifying glass. There are worse ways to go, says an intrusive voice. The first time they met here, she called this place their memorial.

This aimless monologue is running too loud, better to stir him up.

“Why do you bother?” She props herself up on her arm to look at him.

He uses his forearm to wipe off his chin. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You are here at the same time every year. An unfamiliar consistency.”

“I’m always in Brytain this time of year, for a short while anyway.” His eyes dart away from her for a half a second.

“Liar.”

“What’s that saying? What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

“I’ve never found that to be true. What one doesn’t know can cause great harm.”

“May he rest in peace.” He takes another drink from the bottle. “We’re out.”

“Open another.”

He leaps out of bed to examine the remaining bottles. After dusting one off he turns back to her. “This is our last one.”

“One of us will have to get more.”

“Right.”

Looking over at her daemon, she sees him locked in a stranglehold embrace. Why she has given him this allowance, she cannot say. She supposes that, on rare occasion, it is easier to allow yourself to be dragged around. Passivity is not something she is accustomed to, but she can imagine envying its peace.

“Tell me what you want.” He’s back on the bed.

“Excuse me?”

“Which wine.” He cocks his head.

“More of the same.”

He nods. She’s sitting up now with her legs tucked at her side. He sees the opening to rest on her thighs. As she stares down at him, she can see him racing toward his very own custom-made curse. If she was a kinder person, she may have the impulse to pull him away from the edge. Instead, she finds herself sprinting alongside him urging him to go faster.

She’s falling into her own imagination. It’s a relatively new habit, but it is getting worse with time. Right here, right now, he is presented before her as the cold hard facts. Still, she can’t help but wonder what he will look like if she ever starts to forget him. The hypothetical passes through her and she holds onto it like a wish.

“You’re so quiet today.” When his voice gets earnest like this, she has a harder time understanding it. “Where is all the noise in your head?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me. Even if it’s a lie.”

“I really don’t know.”

He cranes his neck open and back. “The sun is starting to set.”

“Can you see stars?”

“Not from this angle.”

It strikes her nerves, the sudden awareness of how close his face is to her stretch marks. If she flinches, it will be an admission of defeat to herself. Surely his hands have been on them at some point today, but she can only notice the proximity when there is that miniscule gap. He hasn’t turned his face back to her yet. She kisses him again to put off the inevitable. More care should have been put in to keeping the proper quantity of questions for each other. She finds herself missing her own mystique.

She knows where he will be going after this and the fastest route to get there. As she heads her own way, she’ll be able to see him in the back of her mind exactly where he is at that moment. It wouldn’t be difficult to line the route with perfectly placed assassins.

Now he is laying with his own hands supporting his head. “You know, I still haven’t checked to see who bought up the property.”

“Neither have I.”

“I hardly thing it matters, but still strange. I thought I’d be more curious.”

“There are other things you have to concern yourself with.”

He grunts in the affirmative. “Do you want me to start a fire?”

“The wood outside can’t be used.”

“We left it too long.”

“If you make more, by the time you finish I’ll have to leave. By the time it gets used, it will be in the same state as the ones out there are now.”

“I’ll bring wood with the wine.”

“Maybe that’s bringing too much of ourselves here, or no?”

“Are we the only two in the world that enjoy a fire and a drink?”

“A vague outline of us.”

“There it is.” He leans closer. “There’s that noise leaking out of your head. It looks like a cockroach crawling out of your ear.”

She leans in as well letting their foreheads touch. She tells herself that this is a symptom brought on by the weaker impulses of her daemon. The golden monkey has his face buried in the snow leopard’s fur. He’ll fill her head with whining later and maybe even take it out on her clothes. Space will be made for the newest fashions.

Pulling on their discarded clothes at last, the darkness outside is undeniable. Regardless, he pushes the sheet to the side to check the stars. He squints into the dark pretending to care about their exact position in the sky. She can see over his shoulder into the black straight ahead. They’ve let it linger longer than they should, but they’ll pretend like they’re running on schedule. He’ll mumble something about Cassiopeia hanging right above their heads. With the absence of her view to the sky, she finally notices the ivy growing in the cracks between the stones.

She lets him leave first, pretending she is having sartorial trouble with a run in her stocking.


End file.
